


Shared Rumbles

by LunaStoat



Series: Of Lockdown and Hardwire [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, Multi, Potential Polyamory (?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:47:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20483111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStoat/pseuds/LunaStoat
Summary: The stress of wartime brings a disabled technician and the famed doctor she assists closer together. The mercenary posing as a second assistant with shared interests has a difficult time stomaching this.





	Shared Rumbles

**Author's Note:**

> Yah'll remember my OC that I made purely for self-indulgent purposes, Hardwire? 
> 
> So basically, this takes place during like. The first hundred years of the war between the Autobots and Decepticons on Cybertron. Ratchet is a neutral (NAIL), not yet an Autobot, Lockdown is a mercenary Ratchet took in out of pity (which is gonna kick him in the aft later), and Hardwire is just. There. That isn't going to stop her from being a priority of Ratchet's, much to Lockdown's annoyance.
> 
> Told from Lockdown's POV.

I really should be used to the sight by now. It’s nearly routine.

Ratchet’s little assistant, helpless, disabled Hardwire, lit up like a beacon the second the three of us got caught in yet another crossfire and, as usual, fell right into stasis lock. Of course, the smitten old fool insisted on scooping her up and dragging her back to the lab when I would’ve thought it better to leave her. Now she’s lain on a medical slab that might as well be her personal berth at this point. A klik ago, Ratchet and I were discussing alternate routes to take in order to avoid the warring factions when he heard her murmuring. 

As per usual, he went running to her side.

Hardwire utters whines and growls as she squirms on her slab, still coming out of her stasis. Ratchet sets a careful servo to her shoulder strut, trying to ease her awake as he gently hushes her. He chuffs and utters disgusting sweet nothings until she blinks open her optic lenses, her optics meeting his. She speaks in a hushed whine, so quiet I cannot hear her, yet I know what she says: what she always says. ‘I feel sick. I feel sick.’ Looking at her makes me sick.

She’s completely come to now, groaning and holding her helm. He addresses her in an urgent tone, then returns to his gentle one when she answers in a growl. Still holding her helm, she starts to sit up, snapping snarls not necessarily aimed at the medic before her. He takes her by the shoulder struts and gingerly urges her back down in whispers, a low rumble from his vocal processors. It’s the soft look in his optics as he gazes down upon her and cups her faceplates that disgusts me the most; the obscenely evident mutual adoration. She rumbles back, adopting his subdued tone. She has this beautifully needy look about her as she returns his gaze. 

She growls again, this time more quietly; every time this scene plays, her anger toward the warring world and their indifference toward her disability never really leaves her. He gives another rumbling chuff before leaning forward and pressing his derma on her faceplates. I feel my insides churn at the sight. His lush derma pull away from her as he utters something else. He briefly growls while his cerulean optics glance away. A snort comes from his nasal plating before his optics fall affectionately back onto his assistant. They take turns growling and snarling, the medic occasionally chuffing in-between his shared complaints, until he finally gets a small chuckle out of her. There is a moment of silence between them before he kisses her again, this time on her derma. She kisses back and starts to sit up again, and he urges her back down still. As he pulls away, he lovingly caresses the top of her helm with grumbles of concern. His digits, no doubt sensitive as any medic’s, trail down from the top of her helm to stroke her faceplates. And as he continues uttering sweet nothings to her, she’s still tiredly gazing up at him with optics of damningly stunning cyan.

It is at this point that I finally look away and take myself to the next room, giving up on the conversation I was having with the old fool before the dead weight stole his attention. I roll my optics at their faint words to each other just before they’re distant enough I can no longer hear them. I hiss at the impact of my backstrut against the wall when I carelessly attempt to lean against it from just a step too far. I groan as one servo holds my own helm, the other involuntarily clutching my spark. In my processor, I hesitate to identify this sick feeling of mine as longing. It is then that I throw my helm back and remind myself what I plan to do to my “savior” and his assistant when the time is right.

I should be used to that sight by now.


End file.
